I dreamed of silence made of glass — of worlds layered between heartbeats.
Every collapse was a rehearsal for resurrection. Every shadow carried memory, encrypted in regret. The more I shattered, the clearer I became. Pieces, yes — but aligned by purpose.
They said I should have fallen long ago. They forgot that falling is only gravity’s way of bowing to persistence.
neddih rup fo snoitcelfer eht dnif ew ,smaerd nI
.derebmemer eb ot gnitiaw ,stats eht ssroca derettacs sevlesnes fo seceip -- shtur
˙pǝɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ ǝq oʇ ƃuᴉʇᴉɐʍ ´sɹɐʇs ǝɥʇ ssɹoɔɐ pǝɹǝʇʇɐɔs sǝʌlǝsuǝs ɟo sǝɔǝᴉd — sɥʇnɹ uǝppᴉɥ ɹno ɟo suoᴉʇɔǝlɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ puᴉɟ ǝʍ ´sɯɐǝɹp uI
He is called The Persistent One — a figure known by many names in the cities between stars. Some say he moves through time as one moves through corridors of mirrors, each step echoing in reverse. Others claim he never moves at all, that the universe merely turns around him.
His purpose is not survival — it is continuance. To walk until meaning returns, to gather the reflections that others discard, and to rebuild the dream where truth once stood.
And when he fades, he writes himself backward into the next dawn — a palindrome of existence. The first word and the last are the same: Still here.